51. Pageant Prince

51

PAGEANT PRINCE

QUINN

12 DAYS 'TIL CHRISTMAS

For almost two weeks, Patrick and I exchange letters.

Beautiful letters. Sweet letters. Sometimes sexy letters.

Today, I catch the postman pulling up to our mailbox right as I'm leaving for the first rehearsal of the Rainbow Connection Coalition's Holiday Pageant. After the success of the Halloween party, Kacey reached out to me via email about doing more work with the group. "Paid this time, of course," she'd said over the phone when we discussed the group's upcoming interest in putting on a holiday production for their parents.

I set the new letter down on my passenger seat like it's truly Patrick, here to visit. I drive over to the rec center buzzing with excitement. I'm eager to work with the teens again and thrilled at the prospect of finding a position at a place that values my unique skill set, allows me to connect and mentor, but doesn't squash my sense of self or mandate me as much.

I'm walking across the parking lot with the letter in hand when Veronica shouts at me from across the way. "Guess what?!" She and Kacey hit it off after Halloween, going out on a string of successful dates. Their dogs have even met. A big step for Veronica when it comes to meeting people. "Ooooh, is that another love letter from your estranged husband?" she asks, eyeing the paper in my hands.

"We're not estranged. That sounds too much like we're characters in a period drama."

"You kind of are," she says. "He's the soldier off in the war. You're the wife character pining away at home, hoping her husband will make it back in time for Christmas. He writes you letters. You write him back. It's all very poetic."

I stick my tongue out at her even though it's childish. Writing these letters has been like meeting a whole different version of Patrick. In his letters, he's clear and precise. He always worried about his way with words, but his words, in these letters, have been having their way with me. At night, I lie in bed, holding them tight to my chest, inhaling the cinnamony scent that somehow clings to the pages even after traveling such a distance. An unmatched intimacy stirs some— "Oh, God. You're right."

"I always am," she says. "And now for my thing. My mom and Noah, as a Hanukkah gift, have agreed to pay the adoption fees for me to bring home a second dog."

"Oh, that's awesome." She's been talking about this forever.

"Luca needs a friend, and I think I've found the perfect one." On her phone, she has an adoption site pulled up. The page features the smiling face of a two-year-old golden retriever named Milo. "Isn't that the handsomest dog face you've ever seen? His family had to give him up because they're moving overseas for work and their housing is no-pets-allowed. I called the adoption agency to see if he was still there, and he is, but apparently, he's so sweet and friendly that there's already a lot of interest in him. The woman on the phone said if I was serious about him, I have to go tomorrow."

"No worries if you can't help me hang the Christmas lights then," I say, already rearranging my schedule in my head.

"Actually, I was sort of hoping you would come with me," she says.

"V, you know I'm not good with dogs."

"I know, but my mom and Noah won't make it home and to the shelter in time before they close, and I just thought since you've been conquering your fears…"

"This is a different kind of fear," I say.

"You're good with Luca."

"Because I know Luca."

"You'll get to know Milo, too!" She's smiling at me insistently. "Please, Quinn. It would mean a lot to me."

Veronica has been fiercely there for me these past months. This is the least I can do to repay her kindness and friendship, so I relent before telling her to head inside without me.

On a bench near the double doors, I take a breath and read Patrick's words.

Dearest Quinn,

I knew December here would be busy. I just didn't know HOW busy. I imagine this is what it's like to work on Wall Street or at Vogue . High-octane, high-energy, all day.

I don't know how we're going to hit our goals by Christmas. With disruptions and wacky magic, it's been a trip. But a rewarding trip.

I'm exhausted but writing to you always perks me up.

It's weird, isn't it? That we're writing to each other like this?

I sort of love it. I never realized how cute your handwriting is before. It's loopy yet neat, large but never invades on the other lines. It's so uniquely you. Sometimes, I catch myself tracing your letters, imagining that I'm tracing the length of your jaw and the dimple in your chin.

God, I want to kiss you, Quinn.

I know I shouldn't say that since we're separated, but I do. Every day that goes by without you only makes the want grow stronger. One day, someday very soon, the want is going to become a need .

Trust me when I say, I'm working hard to figure out a way back to you.

Will you do me a favor?

If you're willing to, hang a dollop of mistletoe above the fireplace.

I promise, once I figure this all out, I will land the sleigh on the roof of our house (careful not to disrupt any of the new shingles I saw you had replaced), slide down our chimney, and meet you there.

You're not selfish for wanting more years for us, Quinn. I want them, too.

No, that want has already become a need.

My love always,

Patrick

I hug the letter to my chest, even if I still have doubts floating around in my head.

"I didn't know smiles could be that big," Veronica says, poking her head out the door.

"I can't have one moment to myself, can I?" I ask with an over-it laugh.

"Nope. We're starting rehearsal. Get in here, Mr. Director."

11 DAYS 'TIL CHRISTMAS

At the dog shelter, I expect to be jittery, but the clank of collars and the pitter-patter of paws doesn't spark fear like it usually does. When we're escorted through the hallways, past the cages, where furry friends bark and wag their tails, I feel light.

They've set aside a special pen for Milo with a water bowl and some squeaky toys. "Say hello," the friendly volunteer instructs Veronica, who goes in without hesitation. I, however, hang back, gripped by an old habit.

"He's very friendly," says the volunteer reassuringly.

"He looks it," I say, shakily, remembering the time my dad forced me to go up and pet the Morgans' rottweiler at a summer barbecue, so I didn't look like a scaredy-cat in front of all the other boys. I think back on the dog that lunged at me and Patrick on our joyride around the world last year.

But then Milo, after receiving plenty of loving pets from a trusting Veronica, sees me, trots over to a squeaky toy in the shape of a candy cane, picks it up in his snout, and walks cautiously up to the edge of the pen he's in. With big brown eyes on me, he sets it down like a peace offering.

"He likes you," Veronica says.

"Would you like to go in now?" the volunteer asks.

Hesitantly, I nod. Milo backs up as the gate opens. He's clearly been trained enough to know not to be rough or bolt out. He waits for the gate to close, for me to crouch down and then hold out a hand for him to smell. It takes him one sniff and two seconds to trust me enough to let me pet him.

I decide to take a cue from Milo, who is leaning into me as I scratch behind his ears. I have to have faith and trust that Patrick—the man I've always felt safest with—will figure this one out for us.